


what becomes of broken hearts

by plumtrees



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Closure, Does this count as a happy ending?, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Museum of Broken Relationships, Pining, Post-Break Up, none of them can deal with FEELINGS properly, none of them can deal with heartbreak properly, wait scratch that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: Instead, there’s hushed tones and trembling voices and the glimmer of tears caught in silver lashes. He thinks and thinks and thinks a little harder, remembers the texts that went unanswered, the dates cancelled last-minute, the laughs that sounded a little too forced and the smiles that never quite reached his eyes and suddenly the answer is right there, hovering in the space between them like something tangible and Kentarou wonders how he never noticed it until now.
Prompt: Person A goes to see the Museum of Broken Relationships for kicks, recognizes one of the items as a gift they gave to Person B before they broke up





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheckersXIV](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheckersXIV/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my sweet sunshine orgchem child! This was the fic I promised you a looooong time ago I’m so sorry xD but it did end up being a birthday gift after all so it all checks out, eh? Stay awesome. Good luck with orgchem!
> 
> General PSA: For those curious about the museum mentioned in the story, check it out [here](https://brokenships.com/). There isn’t one in Japan at the moment but let’s just all pretend there is and it’s situated in Miyagi.
> 
> There is a brief scene where Kyoutani tries to force Yahaba into a kiss, but he stops when Yahaba tells him to (regardless if this makes you uncomf skip the scene between _“I don’t want anyone else.” He hisses_ and _“No.” Shigeru snaps_ )

_I held your memory close,_  
_pressed my lips atop its head,_  
_forehead,_  
_temple,_  
_and with every kiss_  
_a scalpel trailed behind._

_I tried to map out the geography of your mind_  
_tracing the paths of pulsing veins_  
_in search of your secrets._

_Maybe then I could understand_  
_where gone things go_  
_and why._

 

 

-

 

 

“What are you doing?”

Shigeru turns to him, one hand unsticking from his beer bottle to wave. His eyes are hazy, cheeks rosy, and Kentarou’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the chill. The winter winds still linger, taking their sweet time before the warmth of spring chases them out.

“Get down from there.” Kentarou huffs. Shigeru just rolls his eyes at him.

“But it’s my birthday.”

“Not yet it’s not.” Kentarou warns, reaching out to grab a fistful of his shirt. “Get your ass down.”

Shigeru pouts, and maybe he’s more smashed than initially thought because he holds his free arm out. Kentarou scoffs, if only to hide the fondness bubbling in his chest. Even while perched on the precipice of adulthood, only a few minutes’ shy of twenty, Shigeru is still his spoiled little brat.

They wait for the turn of the clock over what remains of the beer, slouched in plastic furniture. Shigeru absently swipes the characters for _Happy Birthday_ on the condensation gathering on the dark mirror of the bottle while Kentarou anxiously kicks his heel back against the paper bag under his chair. His phone buzzes with an alarm. He doesn't bother checking it.

“Midnight.” he mutters as his hand comes up from digging through the paper bag, setting a dainty cupcake box onto the table, lid already popped open, an unlit candle peeking from the top. “Happy birthday.”

Shigeru’s eyebrow drags its way up his forehead, suddenly too lucid. “You got a lemon cupcake.”

Kentarou’s eyebrows meet sharply. “You don’t have to act like I can’t remember my boyfriend’s favorite cupcake flavor.”

“Ken, you can’t even remember my favorite ice cream flavor and we visit the ice cream stand almost every week.”

“Hey! I know your favorite ice cream flavor.” 

Shigeru’s other eyebrow comes up to join its brother, and Kentarou immediately starts sifting through his memories, wracking his brain for the characters printed on the ice cream tubs in Shigeru’s freezer, the color on Shigeru’s tongue when it peeks out to lick at his cone.

“…Green tea?”

The eyebrows lower, only to be replaced by a wry smile.

“Wasabi?”

“Colder than my ass in this chair, Ken.” Shigeru chuckles, sitting up straight. “But that’s ok. You tried.”

Kentarou scoffs. His hand reappears from the paper bag, and this time he whaps the thin box over Shigeru’s head. Shigeru glares but it mellows out to confusion when the box is set on the table in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asks, but he’s already pulling the lid up and off before Kentarou can answer with _Open it_.

A rubber keychain sits in a laser-cut foam bed: two dogs biting each end of a teal banner, its words debossed in white: the kanji for ‘capital’ and ‘cloth’, separated by a paw print with a heart in the middle.

Shigeru _coos_ at it. A louder, more uninhibited version of the high, obscene sound he makes when they pass cute animals in the streets. He pinches the ring between his thumb and forefinger and raises it to eye level, a smile stretching wide over his face.

“Kentarou, you sap.” he giggles, hiccupping in between. Kentarou only averts his gaze, the back of his neck heating up in embarrassment as he reaches for his pocket, fumbles with his lighter.

“Come on, you still have to blow the candle.” Kentarou prompts, curling a hand over the flame to protect it from the wind.

“Geez, Ken, what am I, five?” Shigeru grumbles, but huddles close regardless. Kentarou lights the candle, watches the light bounce off the curves of Shigeru’s face, sink into those pretty lines around the corners of his mouth, paint orange along the browns of his irises. 

Kentarou leans in, because he’d never been able to resist Shigeru when he looks so beautiful, kisses the spot behind his ear, feels it grow warm beneath his lips, takes a short breath to inhale the sweet perfume of his shampoo. He pulls back just in time to watch pale lips split open to reveal the most charming little smile, the same one that gets his pulse racing every time. The wind blows again and Shigeru quickly blows out the candle before the wind can put it out.

“Did you even remember to make a wish?” 

Shigeru sticks out his tongue. “Don't need to. I have all I want right here.”

Kentarou smears icing on his cheek for that.

 

-

 

 

“Nii-chan!”

Kentarou jerks awake, eyes snapping open for a split, regretful second. Nanami’s voice rings in his ears again and this time it’s accompanied by insistent hands tugging on his blanket.

“Nanami.” He growls, though there’s no real bite behind it. “Nanami, I’m serious, stop it.”

She doesn’t listen. He doesn’t know why he even expected her to (god knows how deep stubbornness runs in the family) and she succeeds in pulling the blanket off him.

“I have to go to at least three museums before we come back from winter break.” she declares, arms akimbo like some righteous warrior of waking people up at ass o’clock in the morning.

“Yeah, sure that’s great. You woke me up just to tell me that?” Kentarou grumbles, trying to grasp for a corner of the blanket only for Nanami to pull it completely off his bed. 

“I’m going to go to one today and mom said you had to accompany me.”

Kentarou groans. “Of course she did.”

He loves his family. Loves his sister marginally more than the rest of them. But when she wakes him in the morning like this (even when he asks her to) he just wishes to be back at his apartment, blissfully alone and free to sleep in as much as he wants. He lets her patter around his room for a while, follows her downstairs when the cold overcomes the last of his drowsiness. He eats breakfast. Showers. Gets dressed. Double-ties her boots for her before they call out _We’re leaving_ to their mom in filial unison.

“Where are we even going?” he finally thinks to ask, halfway to the station. The snow had stopped falling some time in the night, but the winds are still cold enough to make an outside stroll a mildly unpleasant experience. Nanami pulls out a pamphlet and he squints at it, refusing to pull his hands from the warm haven of his pockets.

“Museum of Broken Relationships?” he reads out loud, then gets about as far as _dedicated to failed love relationships_ before he looks up at her.

“Is there something you wanna tell me?” his lip curls back threateningly. “Do I need to beat up that Hiroto?”

Nanami narrows her sharply-lined eyes at him. “It’s Hiroki, nii-chan! And I’ll have you know we’re very happy. I’m just really curious about this one since I saw an article on it.”

“Besides,” she continues “if he ever _did_ do something to deserve a beat-down, I can do it just fine by myself.”

 

 

-

 

 

Museums are stuffy places. Art has never really been his thing. Nanami’s got enough appreciation and skill for it for both of them anyway.

Their first stop is relatively small, a bit of a clinical set up. The walls and dividers are white, the wood flooring buffed so meticulously that Kyoutani can almost see his reflection on it.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he saw the pamphlet, but this seems just about right. There are toys and clothes and odd little items perched on pedestals, arranged beneath glass cases, and the sight of every single one sends a pang of sympathy through him. He looks at the things up for exhibit, takes some time to read the stories behind each item. Some are generic stories of sentimentality, some are heartfelt letters, personal and private, inside jokes stitched behind every word. 

He follows Nanami down a walled-off section. He goes slightly bug-eyed when he sees a pink dildo perched on one of the pedestals, hurrying to herd his sister back to the main hall with much protest and eye-rolling.

The centerpiece of the main hall is a large, hollow structure, housing smaller knickknacks in artfully cut-out niches. Kentarou eyes the displays: a sloppily put-together teacup with hardened globs of glue seeping between the veined cracks, a pocket watch with an intricate carving of lilies on its metal cover, a gakuran button.

Most of the objects had very short descriptions, and Kyoutani finds them more intimate than the long-winded ones. _I never found the final piece_ and _To the love I never wanted to leave behind_. His eyes drag back the next object, and that’s when everything slows to a stop.

It’s a rubber keychain, its colors pale and faded, a thin layer of grime built on the surface. Two dogs biting each end of a teal banner, its words debossed in white: the character for ‘capital’ and ‘cloth’, separated by a paw print with a heart in the middle. There is a label, but no message, the empty space beneath the words _Rubber Keychain_ speaking volumes.

Suddenly, his mouth feels too dry. It’s a coincidence. It has to be. Surely there are other couples out there who happen to have these characters in their names. But his brain drags up the days he spent thinking of a gift, pages of sketches and the day he finally stepped into the shop to have it custom-made. The memory of it grabs him by the throat and squeezes until his eyes burn.

Nanami has already wandered off, but he’s still unable to tear his eyes away from the keychain. He gets flashes of brown hair, voluminous with treatment and smelling faintly of peroxide and lemon shampoo and he struggles to remember anything beyond that. He realizes that Shigeru hasn’t appeared in his mind’s eye in so long, can’t remember the sound of his voice beyond shouts of _one more point_ and a soft, defeated murmur of _I’m sorry, Ken_.

Distinctly, he hears his sister calling for him, but her voice is far away, and he feels like the floor has been pulled out from under him, gravity dragging him down, _down_ —

_Shigeru. Hey, come on, don’t do this. Please don’t do this._

His eyes prickle. His breath crawls up his lungs in stuttered puffs.

_Let’s break up._

 

 

-

 

 

Shigeru had stopped dying his hair in university, shedding his insecurities about how it _made him look old_ the day he folded away his high school uniform for the last time. Kentarou used to like it so much better that way, how it shone under sun and moonlight, eye-catching in its uniqueness.

Now, he just wants to go back; brown and far too fluffy and smelling faintly of peroxide, because it brought with it memories of the very first time his fingers nestled in those tresses without the intention of inflicting pain, a remnant of a time when he actually _liked_ the shouting because it always ended in heated kiss.

He had always preferred sitting beside Shigeru on dates, liked having him near enough so they could hold hands in secret, near enough that every breath carried a trace of Shigeru’s scent in it. 

Now, he can’t even remember the last time they sat next to each other, because it’s so hard to keep angling his head just to check if Shigeru’s still even listening to him, because the very touch he used to crave just feels like a searing, painful burn.

He dares another glance. Shigeru looks openly tired, hair mussed and tangled from all the times he’d swept frustrated hands through it. The soft murmur of conversation around them is a reminder of the rest of the world, and Kentarou clings to the white noise more than the words spilling out of Shigeru’s mouth.

It disconcerts him, how he’s not standing and slamming his hands onto the table, the chair falling behind him with a deafening crash, all the café’s patrons turned to them in muted shock as they fight like they’ve always fought: explosive, passionate, with every ounce of their painfully stubborn prides on the line.

Instead, there’s hushed tones and trembling voices and the glimmer of tears caught in silver lashes. He thinks and thinks and thinks a little harder, remembers the texts that went unanswered, the dates cancelled last-minute, the laughs that sounded a little too forced and the smiles that never quite reached his eyes and suddenly the answer is right there, hovering in the space between them like something tangible and Kentarou wonders how he never noticed it until now.

He eyes the dregs staining the bottom of his cup, the cake they always shared sitting a crumbled mess, the delicate chiffon sunken, the cream half-melted. Nobody had taken a bite out of it.

 

 

-

 

 

The transition is not as awkward as he feared it would be. Shigeru had valued his independence far too much to accept Kentarou’s offers to move in, had always been responsible enough to return any clothes he’d borrowed as soon as they’ve been laundered and ironed. The habit had rubbed off on him too, mainly because Shigeru had the memory of an elephant and refused to stop nagging him about returning his clothes.

All he has left to give back, the only things Shigeru let him keep for an extended period of time, are Shigeru’s books; paperbacks still in perfect condition, picked up at Shigeru’s room when he got bored of waiting for him to finish his homework.

He packs the books in a box. He will never know how these stories will end.

They meet on a sunny day, at the parking lot of Shigeru’ s apartment complex. He leans back against the bike rack and when Shigeru arrives he doesn’t even bother to stand, only shifts the sealed box over to him with his foot.

He’d expected Shigeru to just take the box and go, but Shigeru he doesn’t leave. Kentarou risks looking up. There’s indecision in the thin line of his lips, the slight upturn of his brow. It looks so foreign on his face it almost feels like he’s looking at a stranger. 

The shift of Shigeru’s arm breaks the tableau and he pulls his fist from his pocket, he unfurls it, turns it palm up, and when Kentarou sees the keychain sitting in his hand, his lips automatically twist into a scowl.

“Keep it.” He says, voice gruff. “It was meant for you anyways.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Then throw it away. I don’t care.” He chokes and turns away. “What makes you think I ever want to see it again?”

He wants to curse, to shout, but the whispered words are just barely clawing their way out of his throat, painful and raw. Most of all he thinks he wants to ask _why_. At the same time he thinks he can’t handle anymore explanations. He wants to ask _are you sure_ but he thinks it’s pathetic, desperate. Then he thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to keep Shigeru as much as he thinks he does, if his pride can still manage to wrestle his tongue and pin it down in his mouth.

From the corner of his vision, Shigeru’s hand closes around the keychain then retreats, painfully slowly. 

He gathers in shaking hands whatever’s left of his resolve, clenching it tightly in fists balled up in his pockets. He looks up at Shigeru, at the blue ringed eyes, the lower lip bitten red and bloody.

“If you’ve got nothing else to say,” his voice cracks, and Shigeru whips his head up to look at him. The moment their gazes lock, tears flood into his eyes, pooling at the edges and threatening to spill over. His hands go numb, like fine pins are stabbing into his palms.

He ducks his head, the bill of his cap obscuring Shigeru’s face. All he sees is the slow bob of his Adam’s apple. 

Shigeru’s shoes shuffle the pebbles beneath his soles as he walks away and Kentarou grits his teeth, knows that he can never hear that sound without coming back to this moment, this unspeakable pain threatening to tear a hole into his chest.

Soon, everything falls silent. When he looks up, he is alone.

He looks up and a drop falls from his cheek and down his neck, and another, and another. It doesn’t stop.

He wonders why the weather forecast failed to predict the rain.

 

 

-

 

 

The days after Shigeru are as empty as they are dark. It’s like someone threw a thin sheet over him, muting the sights and sounds and sensations of the world. He drags himself through the motions, looks in the mirror only to see a stranger, dives back into old passions only to find that they’ve lost their luster. He wonders if he regrets sharing so much of his life with Shigeru, because now that he’s gone all he has left don’t even feel like they’re _his_ anymore, saturated with memories he’d much rather forget.

Still, time does not stop for him, the gears of the clock unyielding even though all he wants to do is curl up on his bed and feel sorry for himself. He’s not entirely sure how many days he loses, but one day his college friends are in his room, dragging him up by the arms and pushing him out into the hallway. They get him to shower and brush his teeth and eat something other than instant ramen and convenience store chicken. He returns to his classes with a sizeable dent in what used to be a stellar attendance record. He stops attending volleyball practice for good. Doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the e-mail that tells him he’s been kicked out of the team. Eventually, he leaves his apartment and moves back with his family—two hour-long commute be damned because it almost feels like he gets the same amount of sleep anyway—when the shadow of Shigeru’s presence soon becomes too stifling to live with.

Life goes on.

 

 

-

 

 

He goes back.

When he buys a ticket to a completely different station, Nanami only raises an eyebrow and mutters a soft _I’ll tell mom you won’t be home for dinner_ before she boards the train alone.

He rides a train headed the opposite direction, gets off at Sendai and takes another train after that. The speed of transit blurs buildings and people into a mess of color before his eyes, but his body still knows this same exact commute route even now, eight months after he’d stopped taking it.

The buildings are still the same, the Lawson in the corner still there with its flickering W and outdated posters. The same dog still barks after Kentarou as he passes, the gate rattling as it shoves its muzzle through the bars, sniffing curiously.

It’s already dark, save for the yellowish glow of streetlamps. An apartment complex looms in front of him, with its square windows like glowing, judgmental eyes.

He spares the building directory a glance, and it’s enough to notice that the name beside 3C is far too many characters to be _Yahaba Shigeru_. He doesn’t exactly feel anything akin to disappointment. He doesn’t even fully understand why he’s here, what he hopes to achieve. He steps through the gate, the crunch of pebbles beneath his feet making him wince.

He closes his eyes. Remembers how much of their story was rendered right here, in the parking lot of Shigeru’s apartment complex: their first date, with him watching Shigeru exit the door marked 3C instead of walking up to his front door like a decent person because he didn’t trust his legs to carry him up all the way to Shigeru’s floor; their first fight, barbed words spat back and forth until Shigeru finally threw the first punch, the ground beneath Kentarou spotting red with blood; their last kiss, Shigeru soft and warm and steady as their bodies pressed together like they never wanted to separate.

“Kentarou?”

He frowns, shakes his head as if he’s physically shaking off the memory, but the voice comes again. _Kentarou?_ it says. More insistently, surprise lacing the syllables. It sounds far too clear, too vivid, too—

The third time the voice comes, Kentarou spins so fast he dislodges several pebbles beneath his feet. It almost feels like a dream, almost feels like those fantasies he let himself sink too deep into, and Kentarou almost believes that it is. Only he’s sure that dreams aren’t supposed to hurt. Dreams aren’t supposed to feel like the first time he’s ever been punched in the gut, slapped in the face, had his heart broken, only a thousand times more painful and all at the same time.

He catches sight of silver hair and wide brown eyes, and it’s Shigeru. Yahaba Shigeru. Standing in the snow, holding a large envelope to his chest, wrapped in a coat and a scarf, large and endearing in the way that it covers practically half his face.

“What are you doing here?”

The first thing Kentarou notices: the genuine surprise in his tone, the lack of malice, the…concern?

“I…” he starts, too softly. He licks his lips. Swallows. Tries again. “I didn’t…didn’t think you still lived here.”

His eyes dart to the building directory, and he’s right. 3C doesn’t have the characters for Shigeru’s name on it. Shigeru follows his gaze. Blinks. Then realization hits. “Oh, that? That’s the name of the new tenant. Signed the paperwork last week. They’re just waiting on me to move out.” 

He shuffles his feet and the pebbles crunch beneath them. Kentarou tries not to wince again. 

There’s silence for a while, filled only by the haunting howl of the wind. Shigeru walks past him to get to the stairs, and for a moment Kentarou thinks that’ll be the end of it. The sound of Shigeru’s footsteps switch from loose stone to concrete only to pause. He dares to look up and Shigeru’s looking right at him, eyes bright and expectant from above the soft wool of his scarf.

“Come on in. It’s freezing out here.”

Kentarou looks up at him, silver hair glowing honey-blonde under the orange porchlight. He looks beautiful. He looks beautiful and ethereal and gods, Kentarou misses him.

When Shigeru turns to start climbing his way up, Kentarou isn’t even surprised when he follows right behind.

 

 

-

 

 

“You’re looking well.” Shigeru greets, plugging in the electric kettle. “Got rid of the weird hair, I see. Couldn’t you have done that while we were dating? Spared us all the weird looks?”

Kentarou doesn’t answer. He glances around the space while Shigeru bustles around the kitchen. It’s far too empty, far too impersonal. The frames that decorated the walls are gone, the shelves emptied out of the books and little trinkets that used to occupy them. Boxes are all that remain, neatly stacked and labeled at the corner of the living room.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

Kentarou pauses. Takes a sudden, sharp breath. His sight runs across the room, lingers too long at something and nothing, before finally turning to look at Shigeru, actually _look_ at him, for the first time in eight months. 

His hair still has the same too-long wisps that curl outward and make him look younger, the same pale lips and brown eyes. He has the flush of winter on his cheeks, the tips of his ears. And that’s about where the similarities end. His smile stretches his face awkwardly, like it’s an expression he’s no longer used to making. There are shadows under his eyes, darkened by stress and fatigue and sleepless nights. His wrists peek out from his sweater and bones jut out worryingly. He never did weigh all that much, but it was at least enough to soften his features. Now he’s all sharp angles and edges and paper-thin skin swathed over a skeleton.

Kentarou draws his eyes away just as Shigeru turns and sets two steaming mugs on the table, one in front of the chair across from him, and sits down.

“I hope you don’t mind teabags.” he clears his throat. “Most of the stuff’s already packed away and it was all I could dig out—”

“It’s fine.” Kentarou cuts off, moving to sit in the proffered chair but feeling like he’s not in complete control of his body.

Some part of Kentarou wishes he’d thought this through a little bit better, that he’d considered the possibility of actually encountering Shigeru, that he’d be _invited_ to his apartment, that they’d be sitting across from each other with freshly-made lemon tea steaming away between them like old times. He takes a hesitant sip, letting the heat of the mug warm his frigid hands.

“Why are you here, Ke—” Shigeru suddenly stops, and Kentarou almost chokes when he realizes why. The pause extends for another uncomfortable second. “Kyoutani?”

Kentarou swallows his tea with inexplicable difficulty. What can he say? He licks his lips, wondering how he can possibly make this sound any less ridiculous, but nothing comes and Shigeru’s already looking at him nervously.

“My sister and I visited a museum today.” He leans back, tries to search the table for anything his gaze can focus on. “Something about broken relationships or whatever. And I…the keychain…”

Shigeru doesn’t say anything, but Kentarou can see his fingers begin to lace and unlace restlessly the second he mentions the museum’s name.

“A friend of mine was helping collect stuff for the exhibit.” Shigeru says, his hands finally settling around his own mug. “It was about a week after we broke up, and…and I figured instead of throwing it away I’d just…” he shrugs, words petering out to silence.

“I’m not mad about it or anything.” Kentarou reassures, though he doesn’t know why. “I told you it was yours.”

Shigeru blinks again, back to being at a loss. “Then if you’re not here to bite my head off about giving it away…?”

Kentarou knocks back another sip of tea, the heat searing his tongue and waking him like a slap to the face. He wishes he had alcohol instead, something to loosen his tongue and get all these… _feelings_ …out of him. There are too many things left unsaid between them and too many things he wishes he never said, too many ghosts and memories turned sour and Kentarou wants nothing more than to lay them to rest.

“Kyoutani.” Shigeru sighs, and Kentarou’s eyes snap to him, watches his lower lip disappear under his teeth. “Just say it.”

He wants to. He wants to so badly, but the words just retreat farther back into his mouth everytime he opens it. Shigeru’s gaze shifts the longer the silence stays; from expectant to worried to calculating and Kentarou almost jumps when Shigeru’s chair scrapes against the floor.

“It’s getting late.” Shigeru says, tone eerily dismissive, exhausted, strangely pitched low and gravelly and out of breath. He lifts his own mug by the rim, and as he reaches across the table for Kentarou’s, he surges forward, elbows crashing onto the table, hands reaching blindly and closing around Shigeru’s wrist. He looks up, watches those brown eyes tremble slightly in their sockets until it becomes too much, sinks down to rest his forehead onto his arm.

“What do you want?” he whispers to the grains in the wood, feeling the warmth of his breath curl back to his lips.

“I think I should be the one asking that question.” Shigeru hisses. “ _You_ came to _me_.”

He swallows, says nothing, flinches when Shigeru’s hand, gentler than expected, settles over his own.

“Just say what you came here to say.” Shigeru says, in the way he speaks to young children, in the way he spoke to Nanami when she’d hidden behind Kentarou and glared at him over his shoulder. “Whatever this is, just end it tonight.”

Shigeru’s hand twitches over his, fingers flexing restlessly, and Kentarou escapes from beneath him to grab those thin fingers and squeeze, seeking comfort, seeking familiarity, seeking purchase before he reaches into his heart and tugs back the lid keeping all the heartbreak and the chaos and the _betrayal_ at bay.

“Was it because there’s someone else?”

“No.” 

The answer comes so suddenly, so firmly, that Kentarou finds himself taken aback. He looks up again and Shigeru’s eyes are wide with indignation, gleaming with a slight hint of hurt; but he had answered so quickly, without the slightest hint of hesitation, and it makes Kentarou’s heart soar the way it hasn’t in a painfully long time.

“Did you ever love me?”

“Yes.”

Again, no hesitation, not even the slightest pause. Kentarou swallows thickly. “Then why?”

Silence. Five. Ten. Twenty seconds.

“Ken.” Shigeru finally starts, the name coming out of him like a tired sigh, but more comfortably and more natural than _Kyoutani_ ever did. “Ken we’ve _talked_ about this.” 

“Just answer the question.” Kentarou snaps, sets his forehead back to the table to dull the ache waking in his chest. The room falls quiet again. He pictures Shigeru with his stiff shoulders and eyes restlessly darting every which way. He pulls his hand from his grip and Kentarou lets him.

“I couldn’t ask you to wait for me.”

 _Dad’s petition’s been approved. We’ll be moving to America before the end of the year. I’m sorry, Ken._ replays in his mind, and he quickly tries to blink away the tears, shifts his arm to cover his eyes to keep them from spilling.

“What,” he hisses, voice strangled. “What you think I _can’t_? You think I can’t fucking wait for you to come back? Can’t wait until I can earn enough to come visit you?”

“It wouldn’t work out in the long-run. I couldn’t ask you to leave your family behind to live in America with me, and I’m not leaving mine behind to come back here with you.” Shigeru explains, the same exact way he did back then, the day he ripped Kentarou’s heart from his chest and watched it drop to the floor, shattering into a million, unsalvageable pieces. “We’re both still in college, _will be_ for the next few years. How do you expect to earn enough to hop on a plane to America anytime soon?”

“I still have that part-time job—”

“That part time job is supposed to go to your tuition, your rent, your bills—”

“I’m living with my family again.” he interrupts, and his voice is oddly high, syllables slurring and blending together in his haste to get them all out. “There’s more of my salary I get to keep now. In a few months…in a year, it would’ve been enough. We could Skype every night, send packages, Shige—”

Something itches in his chest, something old and dry and tangled up so far in his lungs that it stops his words right in their tracks with a painful, hacking sob. He barely registers it when two hands tug him up, when arms wrap around him, when fingers brush over his hair and pull him against a firm chest. He feels cut open and exposed and confused and all the things he didn’t allow himself to feel in the past eight months and now everything he’s ever tried to hide away is hitting him like a righteous storm.

“I loved you. I would’ve done _everything_. I loved you.” he gets out, between sobs and keening gasps, each word feeling like ripping away the scabs of a wound that had just begun to heal. “I _love_ you, Shigeru, wasn’t that enough?”

“Oh Ken,” Shigeru whispers, his breath brushing over his ears, lips close enough to be pressing kisses into his hair. “Ken, I wish it was.”

He thinks, if he were any stronger, he would have pulled away from his embrace, told him to shove his apologies up his ass because he doesn’t want them, doesn’t _need_ them. If he had given himself more time to internalize his emotions, he would have been able to say no when Shigeru asked him to come inside. If Shigeru had been less important to him, he would never have come back in the first place.

But he isn’t, he hadn’t, and Shigeru _is_ , and to sink into Shigeru’s arms and surrender himself to his own despair is all he can do. 

He grips Shigeru’s elbow with fingers that feel like toothpicks, takes a breath in lungs hugged by ribs made of thorned branches. The tears burn their way down his face like acid. His chest feels hollow. He feels like he’s been smashed to pieces then hastily pieced back together in all the wrong ways, and he can’t fathom how he’ll ever fall in love again, with how broken he feels.

“It’s okay. Just cry.” Shigeru breathes against the top of his head. “Just let it out.”

And he does.

 

 

-

 

 

They’re both on Shigeru’s ratty old couch, legs tangled, Shigeru’s longer body curled up over his back, hand heavy and warm on his waist. Kentarou’s eyes are finally dry, but his head is no clearer.

“This is not your fault. We didn’t work out but it’s not your fault. Please don’t let this ruin you.” The springs squeak as Shigeru’s weight shifts. He shuffles forward to hold him better, closer, tucking his chin over his shoulder. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Ken, I really am.” 

“You’re not.” _if you were you wouldn’t have left me. You would have let me fight to keep this—_

“Your life shouldn’t be spent chasing after me Ken.” Shigeru insists firmly, hand curling around his arm. “You have dreams. You have a home. You have a family here.” he grips tight, anchoring him back to the sound of his voice. “You told me you wanted to be in the police force. You wanted to be like your dad. You said you wanted to go back to Mie, so you could visit your grandparents’ graves everyday, have a vegetable garden and live in a small house close to the forest. I won’t let you give all that up for me.”

He remembers that night. A seniors’ farewell party. Someone had snuck in alcohol. He and Shigeru had somehow found their way to the rooftop and talked about the past year, the future, shared their dreams and anxieties and memories over half a bottle of cheap sake and tentative, clumsy kisses. He’d whispered _Come to Mie with me?_ against Shigeru’s lips, and Shigeru had closed his eyes and leaned his head against his shoulder, lips brushing close to his ear like he was sharing a secret: _Silly dog._ he’d giggled, swaying with intoxication. _You’d have to marry me first._

“You were supposed to be there.” He says. Doesn’t care that he sounds like a whiny child. He curls up tighter around himself, trying to wrench Shigeru’s hand from his arm. “Whenever I told you about Mie, about living where my grandparents used to. I’d always imagined you’d be there with me.” A sob ascends out of him, then a pathetically high hiccup. He wants to cry more, but he feels wrung dry, empty, as vulnerable as an exposed, sparking nerve. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I’m not the last person you’re ever going to love.” Shigeru continues, in the same low, melodious murmur that Kentarou thought he’d only ever hear again in his dreams. “Don’t let me be. You deserve someone who’ll love you, who’ll fight to stay with you the way I didn’t.”

“I don’t want anyone else.” He hisses. The greed looms furious and wanting deep inside of him, and with Shigeru so close it’s only that much more potent. He turns, and Shigeru must have realized because he’s already struggling, trying to get up off the couch but Kentarou traps him into it, plants hands and knees on either side of him and crowds into his space, leaning in for a kiss—

“Don’t.” Shigeru whispers, and that stops him right in his tracks. 

He’s dimly aware of a hand pressing up against his chest, pushing him away. Why? It isn’t supposed to end like this. Shigeru is supposed to give in, kiss him back with the same fervor and abandon he had back when they were young and eager to explore the novelty of their feelings.

But Shigeru’s looking at him, breaths even and controlled, the hand firm on his sternum keeping him where he is.

“Don’t.” He repeats. “Please don’t make this harder for both of us.”

Kentarou whines, blindly reaches out and grabs a bony wrist—or was that his forearm? Shit was Shigeru even _eating_?—in the circle of his fist. “You said you love me.”

“I do.” Shigeru pushes him back, gentle but insistent. “That’s exactly why I’m not going let you do this to yourself.”

“Stop lying.” Kentarou grits out. He pulls harder, squeezes until he feels the bones creaking beneath. “You wouldn’t have let me in if you didn’t want me back. Shigeru—”

“No.” Shigeru snaps, and Kentarou very nearly flinches at the ice in his voice. “I let you in because you were out in the fucking cold in the middle of winter and I’m at least a decent enough of a human being to not let you freeze to death on top of breaking your heart.”

There is no tremor in his voice. There’s no hint of a lie, of him desperately, stubbornly tamping down any feelings he refused to bring to light. He looks up at those eyes and Shigeru’s expression is serenely blank.

“Let me go, Ken.” He murmurs, voice steady and clear. “Please.”

And in that moment Kentarou realizes he misses a version of Shigeru that no longer exists. That the Shigeru that wants him is no longer there. That Shigeru had grown up in the time without him, and all the while, he’d stayed young and bitter and caught up with burying whatever remained of his feelings, without realizing that he was only burying himself.

He doesn’t know what to do with that revelation. All the fight flees out of him like a retreating, defeated army, and Shigeru easily escapes from his hold. 

“Goodnight, Ken.” He whispers in the dark, and slips into his bedroom, locks the door behind him.

 

 

-

 

 

When Shigeru’s mother comes to pick him up the next morning, she only raises an eyebrow at Kentarou, trailing after her son with boxes piled higher in his arms.

When she pats his shoulder and lightly rebukes him for overworking himself, she’s also kind enough not to point out his swollen eyes, the vivid red lining the edges. He only smiles and bows briefly before jogging back up the stairs, not staying to watch Shigeru’s mother pinch her son’s ear, viciously whispering something about _breaking the poor boy’s heart then making him help you move out, I raised you better_.

The apartment is dark and empty, the air stagnant and stale. Already, it doesn’t feel like the place where Kentarou cried out the last of his pain, poured out the last pieces of himself that still wants Shigeru. It’s almost symbolic then, that they’re both abandoning this place, leaving it to gather dust and ghosts and whatever memories the next tenant will impart on its walls.

Only two boxes remain. He picks both up and straightens, turns at the sound of someone stumbling across the front porch, toeing his shoes off like it still matters, like he’s entering a house still occupied. Shigeru hurries to him and reaches for the second box but Kentarou expertly dodges his hands.

“It’s fine.” 

“Mom will kill me if she sees me making you do all the work.” Shigeru insists, hands moving to the hem of his sweater instead. “Let me take one.”

Shigeru has a hell of a grip, and Kentarou’s only left to stand obediently as Shigeru takes the box out of his hands. They step out the door, Kentarou waiting outside restlessly shifting his weight, while Shigeru slips on his shoes and locks the door to his apartment one last time. 

Despite the ease with which Shigeru held him last night, their interactions since that morning have been awkward, stilted. The moment he woke up it felt like he’d been teetering around landmines. Shigeru has yet to even look at him, is always sure never to touch him directly, grabbing instead for his sleeve or his jacket or his scarf.

Kentarou doesn’t know what’s happening between them now, but he knows that what remains of everything he and Shigeru ever had lies in shambles at their feet, and that if he ever wants to fix it this could be the last chance he’s ever going to get.

He stops at the landing, sets the box down gently. Shigeru continues to walk down the stairs, and when he’s two steps from the next landing, the words finally slip out of him.

“I’m sorry.”

Shigeru stops, looks at him over his shoulder. Kentarou’s stomach instantly knots itself, but he takes slow breaths, clinging tight to the words he’d spent all night thinking of.

“I guess I just hated the fact that you slammed the door on me. On us.” It surprises him how clear-headed he is right now, how calmly his voice comes out of him. “And back then you made it look like you were breaking up with me for my sake.” He clenches his fists, turns his gaze to the wall. “And I hated you for that. Because I don’t need you to decide the best course of action for me. I’m not a kid.”

He hears a sigh, soft, but it echoes throughout the empty stairwell.

“I know.” Shigeru says. “And that’s not what I was trying to do.”

Kentarou waits, watches Shigeru kneel to gently set his cargo down before looking right at him.

“I was afraid.” 

In all the years they’d known each other, from the moment they went from awkward enemies to begrudging partners to lovers, Kentarou has never, _ever_ heard Shigeru admit such a level of weakness, and the shock of it causes his pulse to jackrabbit beneath his skin.

“I knew that if I asked you to then you’d wait for me. I—” Shigeru pauses here, bites his lip. “I wasn’t sure if I could do the same.”

There it is again: the feeling of having the ground pulled out from under him, the nauseating feel of his stomach flopping as he falls, hovers in thin air with nothing to hold on to.

“I wasn’t sure how much America would change me. Everything about it is just so. It’s so different, Ken.” Shigeru’s voice quivers, hand coming up to rub over his wrist like he does when he’s trying to keep them from shaking. “I was so unsure of how my life was gonna turn out, how _I_ was gonna turn out.” 

Suddenly, gravity lets him go. Suddenly, he’s floating. He’s floating and a strange numbness overcomes him.

“And I figured it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to wait when I’m not even sure if, one, two years down the line, I’ll still be the same person you were waiting for.” Shigeru shrugs, but the stiffness in his shoulders doesn’t yield. “If I’ll still be a person worth waiting for.”

More silence. Shigeru’s eyes dart from him to the steps separating them in anxiety. Already it feels like they’re miles apart, already Shirabu feels too far, untouchable, and Kentarou can’t help but think that maybe, maybe, if they’d been different people, this would have ended differently, maybe it wouldn’t have ended at all.

But they’re not. They are Kyoutani Kentarou and Yahaba Shigeru. Two people most infamous for being the worst communicators on the planet; so horrible at it that it’s a miracle in and of itself that the Seijou volleyball club didn’t implode under their joint reign as captain and vice-captain.

And yet, they fell in love. They fell in love and kissed on a rooftop in their last year of high school and lived the next year like newborn stars: all heat and racing hearts and the fluttering, excited tingling beneath his skin whenever Shigeru so much as looked at him. It was thirteen months of frantic, inexperienced fumbling, bodies always pressed so close together, as if they were making up for how imperfect they were together, as if they could grind each other down until the day they finally slid together like adjacent puzzle pieces.

He replays those thirteen months in his mind’s eye, from the moment it started up until where it all went wrong. Kentarou takes one breath. Then another.

“You couldn’t have said this when you broke up with me?”

Shigeru smiles, horribly rueful and self-deprecating. “The past few months have given me a lot of time to think of better ways I could’ve done it.”

Even without it being explicitly said, he knows an apology from Shigeru the moment he hears one. He looks at Shigeru; at the thick winter coat that contrasts his pale skin and silver hair so beautifully, at the person that could knock his words right out of his mouth with just a well-practiced smile and realizes that, despite all his efforts to cut ties with the memory of him, one part of him had always stubbornly held on; the part that hurt every time he caught so much of a whiff of Shigeru’s cologne on people passing by; the part that flinches at the sight of silver hair, the part that’s only caused him nothing but pain.

He watches that part of him slowly let go, each finger peeling back slowly, until the last thread connecting him to Shigeru snaps in midair.

 

 

-

 

 

“Thanks.” Shigeru says as he loads the last box into the trunk. “You didn’t have to help.”

“I wanted to.” He answers simply, watching as Shigeru banks his weight on the door, managing to get it shut with a grunt of effort.

Shigeru pats the dust from his hands and leans back to admire his handiwork before spinning around to face him. He looks tired. Happy. Excited. Scared. He looks the way he did when it was announced that he’d be Aoba Johsai’s new captain. He looks the way he did when he caught Kyoutani’s eye from the stage, high school diploma clutched tight in his white-knuckled hands.

“Shoot me a message when you get settled.” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, only to pull them out a second later because it feels too much like déjà vu, with them in the parking lot of Shigeru’s apartment complex and Shigeru preparing to walk away.

“I will.” Shigeru nods, then gestures to the car. “Do you want us to drop you to the station? It’s not out of the way.”

He shakes his head. “I think I need the walk.”

“You sure?”

He nods. Shigeru’s lips thin out. For a moment, their eyes meet, but it only lasts for the barest of seconds before Shigeru’s looking away again, hand dipping under his scarf to brush over his nape. 

“Try not to find a new boyfriend…girlfriend…whatever, before I do, okay?” Shigeru says, and Kentarou thinks it’s meant to be a joke, meant to be a last-ditch attempt at an olive branch beneath all that hesitation and guilt. Kentarou responds the only way he knows how.

“So you want me to stay celibate for the rest of my life?”

Shigeru burst out laughing so suddenly Kentarou sees spit fly from his mouth. His fist suddenly comes up threateningly, only to unfurl and come back down to his side, all the tension in his shoulders dropping with it. “Oh, fuck you, Ken.”

Silence settles over them, but it’s light and companionable and friendly in the way it hasn’t been in years, and when Shigeru smiles it’s soft and sincere and stretches over his face as fittingly as it used to.

“Take care, alright?”

Kentarou nods. “You too.”

He wishes he’d said something more…profound? Memorable? But he’s never been good with words and it’s about as good of a last goodbye as he can afford. The car rolls away with the sound of pebbles crunching beneath rubber tires. Kentarou takes a breath, the winter air sinking into his nose and spreading across his lungs, but instead of feeling cold he feels _alive_ , a sudden spark waking in his chest like the violent meeting of flint and stone. 

Above him, the sun peeks behind the grey sheet of winter. He squints up at it, hand hovering to shield his eyes, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Scream at/with/to me @ my [tumblr](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com)~


End file.
